


Blood & Fire

by elliex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angst, Bobby Singer Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Metaphysical Slash if you read just right, Monsters, Rebellion, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:11:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliex/pseuds/elliex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A hunt goes wrong. Dean is injured, and Sam calls in Bobby and Cas for help. There's some metaphysical slash (Dean/Cas) and soul-to-grace "bonding" in Chapter 5. </p><p>Supernatural belongs to the CW, et. al.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sonofabitch!” Dean growled, using his right hand to apply pressure to the bloody gash in his left forearm. He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder as his brother caught up; Dean shook it off. “Go, go,” he said, waving Sam in the direction of the creature. 

Dean made his way back to the Impala and the field kit, using butterfly bandages to hold the gash together. It wasn’t a great job, especially done one-handed, but he figured it’d do. He fought down his anger and frustration; this was supposed to be a simple catch and kill. “What the hell was that thing?” he said aloud before going through the inventory he did with every unknown creature: powers, abilities, speed, and so on. He’d work through them all until he narrowed the list of suspects. 

Dean was still muttering to himself when Sam, covered in mud and with a bloody scrape above his left eye, returned. Sam threw his unused axe into the trunk, and the whole car jerked from the impact.

“Hey, now! Don’t hurt baby. It’s not her fault you can’t hunt for shit.” Dean knew it was better to poke the Sasquatch and defuse the tension before Sam’s rage erupted. 

“Speak for yourself, cowboy,” Sam retorted. He wanted to hit something and badly. Somehow, his bloodlust cleared enough for him to see Dean leaning against the car, trying to wrap gauze tightly around his arm. “Let me see that,” he said, grabbing his older brother’s arm and closely checking under the first layer of gauze. He poked at the wound. 

“Is that necessary?” Dean asked. Sam looked up to see Dean’s lips pressed in a thin line. 

“Yes, it’s necessary. We don’t know what that thing was – there might be poison or a reaction or something.”

“There’s just blood.”

“Yeah, I’m seeing that,” Sam smirked, inclining his head towards the splatter on the front of Dean’s shirt. “You’re going to need stitches.” 

“You can do ‘em.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea – “

“Why? ‘Cause you got bats in the belfry? I’m not going to the fuckin’ hospital, Sam. You want me sewed up, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”

Sam sighed. He knew better than to argue with Dean over something like this – he’d have to drug his brother and carry his knocked-out body into the hospital, and he just wasn’t up to it tonight. “Fine,” he said. “Get in the car. Make sure you don’t bleed on the upholstery.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” Dean said, with a hint of a smile. He slid into the passenger seat and leaned his head back. “Just going to rest my eyes for a bit, Sammy.” He was asleep before Sam reached the main highway.

* * * 

Bobby had passed along the job last week. Something was terrorizing northwest North Carolina – a string of bodies had been left from Cullowhee to Boone. It was an indiscriminate killer, taking out a jogger, a hunter, and a couple of drunk college kids, but Dean had seen a pattern in the monster’s movements and asked to play a hunch that it’d surface near Grandfather Mountain. Sam would have to ask his brother just how he came to that conclusion because he’d been right. They were both wrong, though, in thinking that this would be an easy catch and kill. 

A wendigo doesn’t have claws quite like that, Sam thought to himself. And it wasn’t demonic – he’d yelled “Christo” once in earshot, just to be sure. And it had taken Dean out pretty quick, which said something in itself. Dean was dangerous any day of the week, but Dean on edge was in a whole category by himself. That thought pulled Sam out of his reverie, and he glanced over at Dean, who was still sound asleep. Sam started to smile at how peaceful his brother looked until he saw the sheen of sweat on Dean’s upper lip and brow. “Oh, shit,” he muttered, pulling the car over onto the shoulder of the road. 

“Dean! Dean!,” he yelled, shaking his brother by the shoulders. Dean was so fevered that his cotton shirt felt hot. 

Dean didn’t rouse. Sam pulled out his pocketknife and cut the gauze. “Shit!” The formerly free-flowing wound was now filled with green pus trying to escape the bandages. It stank too. Sam stifled his gag reflex and quickly re-wrapped a new layer of gauze. 

Taking a deep breath, Sam called out to Castiel, telling him that Dean was hurt and asking him for help. He waited for several minutes, hoping for the brush of air that would mark the angel’s arrival, but there was nothing. “Guess we’re on our own for this one, then,” he said, and pulled out a map. They were about 30 miles from the attack, and one of the motels they’d marked as a possibility was only five miles ahead. “Hang on,” Sam said as he put the car into gear and peeled onto the highway. 

He used a hand to fish out his cell phone and called Bobby. No answer. He left a message and jammed the phone back into his pocket. “Shit,” Sam muttered again, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. What were they going to do? They didn’t know what this thing was; based on what knowledge they did have, Dean shouldn’t be reacting to his wound this way. Bobby was investigating a possible demonic possession in Illinois and Cas was God only knew where. 

He smoothly pulled into the parking lot of the Treetop Motel, leaving the car running as he went in to get a room. It took all of 10 minutes to process one Carlos Smith’s payment for two nights in advance and to park the car outside room 20, the farthest from the main office that Sam could get. 

He manhandled his brother out of the car and wrapped Dean’s uninjured arm around his own neck. “Come on, Dean. Wake up.” There was no response. Sam gritted his teeth and hauled his brother’s dead weight into the room, dropping him onto the far bed. Tonight, Sam would be taking the guard position.  


Sam carried in their duffels and first aid kit and the box of supplies they’d picked up on their way into the state. He checked Dean, who was still unconscious but not showing signs of distress. He quickly hit the ice machine and grabbed a couple of cold sodas too before locking the room down for the night, complete with salt lines and a portable devil’s trap doormat. 

He turned his attention to Dean, stripping his brother down to his boxers and checking him for additional wounds. There were some abrasions and a plethora of bruises already blossoming into starbursts of blue and black. But no bite marks, and no other deep gouges. There was just the arm wound.  


Sam had laid a cold compress on Dean’s fevered forehead, and his left arm was resting on a towel. Sam quickly laid out the first aid equipment, and then he started in on the arm. He removed the gauze and again fought back the urge to vomit from the smell. It wasn’t septic – couldn’t be so quickly, he knew. His best guess was a poison that was attacking the tissue. 

A bath in holy water cleaned out the pus and the smell, leaving the wound raw and red, but there were still green tendrils – they looked like veins, Sam thought – starting to divert out from the wound across Dean’s skin. He packed the wound with cotton that he’d soaked in holy water, and he wrapped it back up. It was a piss-poor job, but it was all he could do right now. 

He wet Dean’s lips with a cloth dipped in fresh, cold water and managed to drip some into his brother’s parched mouth. Dean still had a fever, and while his pupils reacted to light, Sam still couldn’t rouse him. He made cold compresses of the leftover ice and arranged them on Dean’s body to try and bring his temperature down. 

Dean appeared to be resting, despite the fever and the wound. Sam muttered a protection spell over his brother, just to be sure, and then he jumped into the shower, leaving the bathroom door open for good measure. He’d stick his head out from the curtain every few minutes, but Dean wasn’t stirring.

The hot water revived Sam. He’d twisted his ankle chasing that damn creature down a steep ravine after Dean was incapacitated, and his entire body had been aching with fatigue and stress. The rivulets of warmth racing along his body were soothing, and for just a moment, he leaned into the water and rested his forehead on the slick shower stall wall. He breathed deeply and tried to gain some clarity, but the lack of Dean's presence, his spirit, was just too much.  


Sam had spent his life hating the motels that they lived in for days or weeks, sometimes even months, at a time, but he could always count on Dean’s boisterousness to buoy the mood – normally, after a hunt, they’d order a pizza, crack open some beers, flip on the television, and just kick back. Tonight, the silence was deafening. 

He turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist before stepping out to check on Dean again. Still no change. Sam inspected his own wounds in the bathroom mirror, but there was no broken skin – just a few bruises from his fall. The monster – the creature – had quickly outstripped him once it had shaken Dean off its trail; he never even got close to it. 

He pulled on a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt and checked his phone. Bobby had texted: “On way. Be there asap. Hang in there, Kid. Dean’s a tough SOB.”  


Sam wanted to let the reassurance touch him, to feel it soothe around the anxiousness that was building up inside. He needed to stay busy; that would help. So he checked the salt lines and devil’s trap – again – and carved a protection ward into the doorframe for good measure. He switched out Dean’s now lukewarm compresses for cold ones and allowed himself a breath of relief that his fever wasn’t boiling any longer. He cleaned the wound again, washing away a resurgence of the green pus with more holy water. He rubbed an ice cube across Dean’s lips and let some of the water run into his mouth. 

Checking his brother’s pupils again., Sam took a gamble and jostled his brother, and even yelled at him “Dean! Wake up!” But Dean was still unresponsive and unconscious—every bit the feverish sleeping beauty. Sam made a note to remember that image; he could get at least a week’s teasing out of it, maybe two.  


He did a quick inventory of their supplies and fired off a reply text to Bobby: “Thanks. Hurry. Grab first aid supplies on way in.” Bobby’s response was instantaneous: “Done.” That settled, he moved the nightstand separating the double beds and pushed the outer bed closer to Dean’s. He placed his phone and the laptop and the few documents they had related to the attacks on his bed within easy reach. 

This way, he could monitor Dean closely while getting some research done, maybe even get a few minutes of shut-eye. But first he reached out and took Dean’s limp, feverish hand in his own, turning it over and examining its scars and comparing them to his own. Nearly any given day gave birth to at least one minute where Sam wanted to kick his brother’s ass – and vice versa – but they were brothers, bound by blood and forged by fire. Watching Dean go, in a matter of minutes, from giving him shit about letting a monster outrun him to being damn near comatose was terrifying. 

Sam sat there the rest of the night holding Dean’s hand, praying—to Cas, to God, to whoever might be listening—and listening to every breath his brother took. It was one of the longest nights in Sam’s recent memory.


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby knocked at the door of room 20 shortly before noon. He heard rustling inside and a gruff “Coming.” He used the moment to glance around the picturesque surroundings. The motel was quaint and simple, while the foliage was obviously gearing up for its autumnal display. He wondered if they could get rid of the rogue creature before the leaf-lookers were out in full force. 

When the door finally opened, Sam was standing there, and the poor kid looked like shit. Dark shadows under his eyes, a gray sheen to his face, and that hair – lord, Bobby thought, if he’d only give me like two minutes with the clippers, but that would never happen. The kid launched immediately into Bobby’s arms, putting the older man into a death grip of a hug. That alone told Bobby that Sam was really, truly scared.

He hugged back just as tightly. He patted Sam’s back, and he had a flashback to comforting a four-year-old Sam after he’d had a nightmare. He’d wound up with a boy curled up on either side, both listening with rapt attention as he read _Swiss Family Robinson_ aloud. He’d kept reading even when both boys were asleep, hoping that between the cadence of his voice, the coziness of the library, and the crackling of the fire, these two could get a decent night’s sleep. He’d known that John could return any day and take them back on the road. Bobby wanted to give them at least one night where they felt safe and slept the healing sleep that every kid should have. When he did finally stop reading, he still stayed right where he was until long after the sun rose -- even when his knee seized up and his sciatica started twinging, he didn’t move a muscle. He just listened to the boys’ even breathing and wondered when he’d started thinking of them as his own. 

This Sam was a giant compared to that four-year-old, but his need for reassurance was just the same. “It’ll be okay, Sam,” he said. He looked over Sam’s shoulder and saw Dean’s prostrate form. “Now, why don’t you let me see your brother, and we’ll get this taken care of.” 

Sam nodded and stepped back so that Bobby could enter the room. While the older man gave Dean a once-over, Sam grabbed Bobby’s bags from where he’d dropped them outside the door and carried them in before re-pouring the salt line. 

“He’s been like this all night?” Bobby asked while checking Dean's pulse. 

“Yeah. I’ve tried to wake him, but nothing’s worked. I would have called an ambulance if it weren’t for his arm – I don’t know how to explain that to a doctor.” 

Bobby gave Sam a quizzical look, and he gestured towards Dean’s injured arm. “Pull his bandage back; it’s only getting worse.” Bobby did, and his eyebrows shot up under his hat. “Shit,” he said. “Tell me about it,” Sam said, walking over with the holy water and other first aid supplies so that he could irrigate the wound again. As the pus washed clear, he motioned to the green tendrils that were thicker than they’d been twelve hours ago. “Look at this, Bobby. I don’t know what to make of it – they look like veins, but they can’t be, can they? It’s like he was infected, and whatever infected him is growing, but what does that mean exactly?”

Bobby was shaking his head. “Damn, Sam…I wish I knew what this was, but it’s a first for me.” He pulled the sides of the wound apart so that he could see inside – “Grab a flashlight, will ya?” Sam shone one into the wound, and Bobby took a careful look. “Okay, I see… something.” He shook his head at Sam’s hopeful face. “Don’t get too excited, Sam. This may be nothing but a speck of grit that the holy water didn’t flush out. Look in my blue duffel and get my magnifying glasses. I need the long-nosed tweezers, too.” 

Sam laid both down beside Bobby, along with a pair of rubber gloves and a plastic specimen container. Bobby put on the glasses that he’d bought from a retired doctor, then the gloves. Sam held a flashlight in each hand to augment the crappy motel room lighting. Bobby taped the sides of the wound so he’d have access – Dean would have a helluva scar, but it was better than being dead, he thought – and peered into the wound, reaching in with the tweezers to dislodge the single dark sliver of something down in the raw and ragged tissue. It felt like a very dangerous game of Operation, and he really, really didn’t want the buzzer to go off. 

He managed to get the sliver out and carefully held it up; Sam was already holding the specimen box, and Bobby carefully placed the sliver into it. He then irrigated the wound again, used bandages to seal it, and checked Dean’s pupil responses. There was no change, but Bobby hadn’t expected there to be. The boy hadn’t even jerked when he’d dug into his arm; he was dead to the world—and as soon as Bobby thought that phrase, a chill ran through him. To counter any negativity he’d errantly conjured, he murmured, “We’re gonna figure this out, kid.” Looking up at Sam’s anxious face, he assured him too, “We will, Sam. I promise.” Sam nodded, but he stood there a moment longer, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. 

It was then that Bobby noticed the slight swaying, and his eyes narrowed. “Okay, how much sleep did you get?”

Sam shrugged.“Not much. I’m okay.” 

Bobby snorted. “Yeah, right. Get yourself a few hours, while I dive into the research.”

“But—“

“No ‘buts’ with me, boy. Bed. Sleep. Now.” Bobby’s authoritative tone brooked no resistance, and Sam – for once – listened. He threw himself face-down onto the bed and was asleep before Bobby could carry in more supplies from the car.

“Idjit,” he said fondly, setting the supplies on the table and grabbing a spare blanket from the closet. He covered the giant kid and then checked Dean to see if he needed cover too, but he was still running hot. Bobby freshened a cloth for Dean’s forehead, and since there were no conscious witnesses, he gave into the paternal urge to softly kiss the sick boy’s forehead before applying the cool cloth. Tears welled up in his eyes. One boy exhausted and worried beyond the limits of his endurance, and the other nearly comatose with God-only-knew what coursing through his system. These boys would be the death of him. 

But Bobby Singer would go down swinging, and he pushed the heel of his hand across his eyes and snapped himself out of the chick flick moment that he’d deny to his dying day. He had work to do while his boys slept.


	3. Chapter 3

The drama unfolding in a motel room in North Carolina’s high country didn’t go unnoticed by watchers in heaven. Some watched looking for a moment of weakness, others watched with concern. Castiel’s bond with Dean Winchester and his brother Sam was considered notorious by Raphael’s camp and inspirational by Castiel’s own. 

The epic civil war was reaching unprecedented proportions as Raphael gunned for re-starting the apocalypse and annihilating humanity and Castiel’s battalions fought back to save their Father’s creation. Heaven was decorated with the blood of angels and the tattered ruins of God’s original vision—whatever that was. Many were no longer sure, and it was that doubt ripping the heavenly plane apart. 

Operating as a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, Castiel existed on several planes at once. Sam Winchester’s plea for help stabbed through a facet of his consciousness, and Castiel discerned that Dean was injured in some way, though still alive. That awareness by only a modicum of his consciousness engaged fractions of a single second, yet it nearly cost the war. Raphael, constantly searching for an advantage, had sensed his opponent’s wandering attention and chose that precise moment to unleash waves of attack across multiple planes of existence; the offensive maneuver could have decimated the mortal realm in seconds. A warrior without the luxury of losing, Castiel thrust his entire being back into the conflict. 

He cut off all thoughts of Dean – until it was nearly too late. 

After forcing Raphael’s garrisons to retreat to the outer rim, Castiel allowed a sliver of his self to evaluate the Wincehesters’ situation. He sensed Dean’s injury, Sam’s worry, and something else he couldn’t quite identify, a dark essence that alarmed him. As he debated whether or not the angelic conflict was currently stable enough for him to leave the war room, he felt his bond with Dean stretched near to the breaking point. 

The wavelength that was Castiel froze on every plane of its existence. Samandriel, who had been quietly monitoring his friend, empathizing as he dealt with his split loyalties between heaven and earth, extended an element of his own disembodied consciousness to gently touch Castiel’s: “Go. Raphael cannot launch another offensive until he can regroup. I will cover your absence." 

"Thank you, Samandriel," Castiel responded. 

"As always, my friend. Go to Dean.”

* * *

Sam didn’t notice Castiel’s arrival in the motel room. He was on his knees with his forehead to the floor. His keening was haunting and revealed his utter despair.

Castiel surveyed the room, taking in the destruction and the blood. Something very bad had happened to Dean here. Castiel grasped Sam’s upper arm and raised his friend from the floor. 

“What happened, Sam?,” he asked, his hand keeping the boy upright in his grief.

The younger Winchester looked at the bed, where hours before Dean’s poisoned body had struggled with fever and infection. “He – Dean – He transformed into… I don’t know what – something – and he did…. this.” Sam motioned at the trashed room and Bobby’s broken body in the floor. “He killed Bobby, Cas.” Sam’s tear-stained face crumpled with sorrow and heartbreak.

“That I can fix,” Cas replied, touching the old hunter’s forehead with two fingers. Bobby Singer opened his eyes, suddenly back inside a body that was now whole. His last memory had been of Dean – no, not Dean, whatever Dean had become – attacking him, gouging deep gashes in his torso and arms before a loud crack had sent him into the void. 

He raised himself up to a sitting position. “I’d really like to stop gettin’ my neck broke, guys,” he groused, rubbing his neck with both hands. He looked up at the angel. “Thanks, Cas, for savin’ it yet again.” 

“You are welcome, Bobby.” Castiel looked to Sam. “Where did Dean go?”

“I don’t know.” Sam’s distress was palpable. Castiel anticipated that Sam’s fear would now turn to anger, and he was right: “And where the hell have you been, Cas? I’ve prayed to you for days!”

“Sam—“

“No, I don’t want to hear your excuses, Cas. What about your supposed ‘profound bond’ with my brother, huh?” Bobby swallowed an unbidden guffaw at the air quotes Sam used to emphasize “profound bond”; lord, he was a princess when he got pissy.

Bobby silently watched the two argue. He was grateful to the angel for literally saving his neck, but he also wondered about the delay. Usually Castiel was glued to Dean like butter on toast. But he cringed inside as Sam’s tantrum led him to square off with Cas, chest to chest; it seemed awfully easy for the boy to forget that Castiel was an angel of the lord and not some run-of-the-mill supernatural creature.

“My bond with Dean exists beyond your comprehension, Sam.” The steel in the angel’s voice revealed that his patience with Sam’s display of anger had run thin. “You forget that I’m fighting a war on multiple planes of existence, one that determines the fate of this entire planet.” Castiel paused. “I heard your prayer, and my awareness of it – that alone – nearly gave Raphael a winning advantage. I had to focus on what was most important.”

“Most important—“ Sam began bitterly, but Cas cut him off.

“Yes, Sam Winchester. What was most important. Dean would be the first to say that the Apocalypse must be stopped at any cost, would he not? Even if it were at the cost of his own life? Since, if Raphael wins, none of you will have lives?”

Cas watched as Sam digested his reasoning and swallowed the tirade he obviously still wanted to unleash. Once Sam grudgingly nodded, Cas waited a moment before softly adding, almost hesitantly, “I would have come instantly for Dean if I could have.”

Sam looked the angel in the eye before nodding slowly.

Bobby took that moment to clap a hand on each of their shoulders and separate them from their stand-off positions. Perhaps a little more heartily than was warranted, he said, “Well, now that that’s settled, let’s see if we can’t save Dean before Raphael makes another move and angel boy here has to skedaddle.”


	4. Chapter 4

It took Castiel mere moments to follow his now-tensile bond with Dean to locate his friend. It took even less time for Cas to zap there. It took a bit more time for everything else, though.

Dean was not “Dean.” Cas already knew that yet seeing the hunter transformed into whatever he now was shocked him. 

The green eyes staring back at him were not full of light and fire, as Dean’s always were no matter what his mood. Instead, they were flat, calculating, atavistic. The muscular body that Castiel had knit back together himself was tense and ready to pounce. Claws extended in the place of blunt fingernails and scales hid the freckles that Cas had painstakingly preserved. 

The change in his re-creation made Castiel’s heart hurt. 

The creature – Dean, Castiel reminded himself, _Dean_ – circled the angel predatorily, and Cas wondered momentarily if the real Dean understood what was going on, if any level of him understood the changes that had happened to him, who Cas even was. If he did, Cas thought, then a chance still remained to reverse whatever had happened. 

Suddenly, Dean leapt through the air with a strength more common to the African savannah than the Blue Ridge mountains. Castiel had been waiting for this, and he took the opportunity to grab Dean by the head. Using his grace, he knocked the creature out and slung the limp form over his shoulder. 

By the time that Cas appeared in the motel room, with an unconscious sort-of-Dean, Bobby and Sam had set the room to rights as well as they could and staved off the hotel manager’s inquiries with the ludicrous story that they’d left the door open and a raccoon had run in creating mayhem and havoc. The two agreed that the manager’s obvious affinity for ripple helped them in selling their cock-eyed tale.

They were ready for Cas’s arrival – rope and handcuffs and chains were at the ready. Without speaking, Cas dumped Dean’s unconscious form onto the bed, and Bobby helped him fasten the restraints. 

Sam didn’t really watch what they were doing to his brother. He focused on searching through the rare lore books Bobby’d had in his trunk. They had to figure out what had attacked Dean and turned him into this. 

Bobby surreptitiously glanced at the younger Winchester as he fastened chains around the eldest – for all his sniping at his brother, Sam was too used to always having Dean there. Sure, Dean had gone to hell, and Sam had managed to mostly survive on his own, but that had been different. Sam didn’t witness the transformation of Dean from his Dean into Alistair’s torture machine. This evolution – Dean into whatever this was – had taken place in front of Sam’s eyes. Bobby thought the world of Sam, but he wasn’t sure this was something the boy could take. 

Looking down at Dean, Bobby saw the face of the boy he’d tucked into bed many a time. But the reality was that gray scales covered that fair skin, and the boy’s body continued to morph even as he stood there. The musculature was re-routing itself into a more primal form. 

When the last chain was locked in place, Sam finally spoke. “Cas, do you know what happened?”

The angel laid a hand upon Dean’s forehead and stood in silent contemplation with his eyes shut for a moment. Then, he said, “The changes to his system are fundamental, but I believe they can still be reversed – if we act in time.”

“What caused the changes, though?,” Bobby asked. “The scratch?”

“The toxin catalyzed this process,” Cas said. “But it was already set into place.”

Sam looked confused. “I don’t understand – Dean was already changing before he was infected?”

Castiel was surveying the room and didn’t answer Sam. He honed in on Dean’s duffle, and suddenly the duffle was in the angel’s hand, and he was emptying the contents upon the bed. He picked up a small wooden box, intricately carved and painted. 

“Oh, crap,” Bobby said, seeing the box and suddenly understanding. 

Sam stood up, nearly overturning the table where he’d been working. “Does somebody want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Where did Dean get this box, Sam?” Cas asked. 

“From a wannabe sorceress in Tennessee—she sucked at sorcery, though. Had no clue what she was doing.”

"Did you both touch it?"

"No, just Dean."

“Did she give Dean this box or did he take it?”

“He, uh—he took it,” Sam said. “We cleaned out her supply and told her if she tried again, we’d kill her next time.”

Bobby gave him an incredulous look. Sam shrugged. “We gave her a pass – she had just turned 18, and we figured she was just being stupid.”

“She may have been mentally challenged,” Cas said. “But the sorcerers who came before her were not, and they taught her enough to cause real damage.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam said. 

Cas and Bobby shared a look. “It’s a spell box, you idgit,” Bobby finally said. “Do you see that engraving, there—“ Cas pointed at the right spot so that Sam could see, but he wouldn't let the younger Winchester touch the box. “It invokes a transformation, and it looks like Dean’s been given the primordial treatment.”

“So he’s turning into what – an earlier form of a human?” Sam asked with disbelief. “He doesn’t look like any of the models I’ve ever seen of prehistoric humans.”

“No, it’s not that sophisticated of a spell,” Cas replied. “Dean was apparently scratched by some kind of hybrid monster, perhaps one of the Campbell experiments or one of Crowley’s. I can sense at least two species that I can’t quite discern, in addition to the Wendigo. That toxin reacted with this spell, transforming Dean into this.” Castiel motioned towards the bed. 

“I’m going to kill her,” Sam muttered. “Can we reverse it?” He couldn’t bring himself to look at the angel; he carefully studied the floor, waiting to hear the answer.

“We can try,” Cas said somberly. “Bobby, do you know the ritual to safely deconstruct the spell work and destroy the box?”

“Yeah – it’s been a while, but I can do it. How do you want us to get the sorceress’s blood, though?”

“I recommend cutting her throat,” Cas said. His level tone made both Sam and Bobby’s eyebrows rise. “We have no time to lose, so I’ll send you to her; get the blood and perform the ritual. Call me when you’re done, and I’ll bring you back.” 

Castiel wrapped the box in a towel and handed it to Bobby. "Don't touch it," he cautioned.

"No worries there," Bobby said.

“What about Dean?,” Sam asked as he helped Bobby pack the gear they would need.

“I need time alone with him,” Castiel said. “Your brother has a preternatural ability for breaking through possession and control – with you, Bobby, and myself. If I can reach his soul, help bring him to the surface, my hope is that he can do it for himself.”

Sam nodded soberly. “Your bag,” Bobby said, tossing the younger man his now-ready duffel. Sam caught it, neatly slinging it over his shoulder. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam said.

“Don’t thank me yet, Sam,” the angel said. "But I have hope that we can all give thanks soon." He knew he'd said the right thing when the darkness in Sam's eyes lightened. 

“Alright, do your stuff, Cas,” the older hunter instructed. He and the angel shared a long look – one that spoke volumes, _we have to save him, can’t have a world without Dean, we love him._ But all of that went unsaid. 

Instead, Cas cautioned, “Do it right. If this goes wrong, nothing we do can save Dean.” He touched fingertips simultaneously to their foreheads, and they were gone. 

Cas turned back to the unconscious form of his friend. He used his grace to reapply the “whammy” as he knew Dean would call it. He needed the atavistic side of Dean deeply asleep to even attempt what came next. 

He knelt beside the bed and bowed his head. To an outside observer, it would have looked like Castiel was praying. And maybe, in a way, he was.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam and Bobby found themselves standing outside a small, tidy brick house. The yard was neatly mowed, and pink, plastic flamingos flanked a cement bird feeder. There were no near neighbors; it was a picturesque, rural scene.

Bobby raised his eyebrow. “This is the home of our sorceress?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah, she inherited the place from her grandmother who died last year. The spellbooks and materials belonged to her; our wanna-be found everything in a trunk in the basement and decided to play with toys she didn't understand.” 

The two watched as the last light in the house went out. 

“Well,” Bobby said. “We’d better get to it.”

“Let's go in through the screened in porch around back,” Sam said, leading the way.

+

While Sam and Bobby commenced to breaking and entering, Cas prepared to repair Dean’s soul. 

Using his grace, he peeled away layers of Dean’s consciousness, tossing aside the predatory urges and the aggression currently at the forefront. Cas had to dig deeper through the damage wrought by the spell and toxins than he’d expected.

Castiel prayed that there was enough of Dean left to put back together. 

He finally found part of the real Dean – _his_ Dean. What remained of that pure soul was curled up on itself, an act of protection against the encroaching darkness. Castiel wrapped his grace warmly around it until Dean relaxed and found himself sheathed in his angel. 

It was a union both had enjoyed before. Dean’s soul brightened at the touch of Cas’s grace, much as it had when Cas saved him in hell. 

What Dean had never realized was that Cas’s grace had brightened at the touch of Dean’s soul too. 

+

Sam felt sick. They’d gotten into the house unnoticed and found Sally – the wannabe sorceress – asleep in her bed. The terror in her eyes when he grabbed her and Bobby gagged her… well, he didn’t think he’d ever forget it or forgive himself for putting it there. 

He couldn’t even look at her – tied to a kitchen chair and obviously scared to death, watching every move they made with wide eyes.

After all, he and Dean had promised to leave her alone so long as she stayed on the straight and narrow. 

“Bobby—” Sam hesitated, unsure how to ask but then just plunged on through. “Was Cas kidding earlier, about… ?”

Bobby’s wrinkles etched deeply into his wan face, and Sam knew by the sad look in the man’s eyes that he wasn’t going to like the answer. 

“Not really.”

“What do you mean, not really?”

“We don’t have to cut her throat, but the spell requires a lot of blood. I don’t know if she’ll survive.”

Sam swallowed hard. “Dean won’t like this.”

“No,” Bobby agreed. “But are we willing to not do it?”

Sam stood for a moment, watching the girl. “Did you bring the chloroform?,” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Bobby replied, eyeing the boy. He knew Sam didn’t want to hurt a civilian, but he also knew that a person who tried to kill Dean became enemy number one in the boy’s book. 

“Good.” Sam headed for the duffle, digging out the bottle. Bobby couldn’t bring himself to watch as he rendered the young woman unconscious. 

+

Cas felt Dean’s soul grow stronger as their energies danced together. The poison still pulsed inside Dean, though, and it also was growing stronger. Cas amplified the grace insulating Dean. Nothing could happen to this man.

+

Sam positioned the bowls to capture every last drop of blood. Bobby did the cutting.

By the time enough blood had collected, Bobby had the rest of the ingredients set up. 

Sam tied tourniquets to stem the blood; Sally was limp and pale. He tried not to think about the fact that they might have killed her.

Bobby chanted the invocation. The spell only took seconds, and a bright, blue light erupted from the ritual bowl. 

“Was that it?” Sam asked.

“I hope so,” Bobby replied, tilting the bowl so that Sam could see it was now empty. The spellbox and the blood were gone. 

+

Cas knew the instant the spell had broken: The darkness that had been pulsing against his grace, trying to take what was left of Dean, began receding. 

As Dean’s vibrant soul hummed with increasing energy, Castiel used his grace to coax it into unfurling, expanding, and coming into its full being. 

And he focused his healing powers on eradicating the poisons coursing through Dean’s system.

+

A part of Castiel’s consciousness heard Sam’s prayer to return three of them instead of two. He did so without considering the change in number. His focus was on Dean, on restoring the Righteous Man. 

+

Another part of Castiel’s consciousness heard Samandriel’s apologetic call. “Brother, we need you.” Castiel simply replied, “Soon.” Then he turned that part of his awareness back to Dean as well.

+

The sight that greeted Bobby and Sam when they arrived back in the motel room left them both slack-jawed. Sam nearly dropped the unconscious and limp would-be sorceress.

Cas was lying on the bed beside Dean, his hand lying on the man’s bare chest. His eyes were closed, and he leaned his forehead against the side of Dean’s head. Both were enveloped in a golden, pulsating glow.

It was like watching angel porn – starring his brother, Sam thought. He squinched his eyes shut at the idea and shook his head. A look at Bobby told him the older man was having a similar horrifying response. 

But neither made a sound. They stood, stock-still and silent, watching as Cas worked his mojo.

Scales receded before their eyes, exposing patches of very normal, very human skin that was tanned and freckled. Claws fell off, and fingernails grew in their place. 

Dean was healing.

+

If Cas were being honest, he’d have to admit that he loved being inside Dean Winchester again – the feel of his grace against that vibrant soul, the vibrant soul’s response to his grace…. He remembered this dance well. He knew that Dean did too, at least subconsciously. 

He was grateful, though, for Dean’s quick response to his touch, for the fact that the layers of darkness and poison quickly dissipated, and Dean’s beautiful soul filled his meatsuit in a starburst of light and energy. 

Cas allowed himself a second to enjoy Dean as _Dean_ , one last caress of the soul that managed to pull him away from a cosmic battle that would literally determine the future of the entire universe. 

But then he had to withdraw, to come back into the world. 

+

Cas got off the bed and stood, using his grace to straighten his rumpled clothing. He looked down at Dean and was pleased to see the human form he knew so well. Dean was sound asleep, his lashes dark against his skin, his breathing deep and even. When he awoke, he should feel like a new man, Cas thought. 

Cas turned from Dean and saw Sam and Bobby; he had forgotten they were there. But when he saw the sorceress in Sam’s arms, his mouth curled in contempt. 

“Why is she here?” he asked. The look on Cas’s face made Sam take a step back and Bobby a step forward. 

“We can’t let her die, Cas,” Sam said. “Please – will you heal her?”

“No,” the angel replied curtly.

Bobby reached a hand out and laid it on the angel’s shoulder. 

“I know how you feel, son,” he said gruffly. 

Cas looked at the hunter’s hand and up to his face, eyebrow raised, but Bobby only tightened his hold. 

“I do,” Bobby said. He nodded at Dean’s sleeping form. “There’s part of me that wanted to watch her die painful for what she did to my boys, but you gotta face facts, Cas – Dean will not want us to have killed a civilian so that he could live. He’s gonna tell us that we should’ve just killed him and been done with it, that she was too young and stupid to know what she was doing.” He let go of Cas’s shoulder.

Cas appeared to think for only a second – of course, it was an angelic second, meaning his mind traveled distances and spaces that humans couldn’t traverse in a lifetime. But then he nodded, and he reached a finger out. 

Sam took another step back – “Uh, are we smiting or healing, Cas?”

“Healing,” Cas said. Sam stepped forward and let Cas touch Sally’s forehead. Her wounds disappeared and color returned to her skin. Then she disappeared from Sam’s arms.

Sam grasped at empty air. “Where’d she go?,” he exclaimed. 

“Back to her bed. She won’t remember anything that happened this evening or anything about the spellwork she was studying.”

“Uh-okay,” Sam nodded. “That’s a good thing.”

“You did the right thing, Cas,” Bobby said. 

The angel nodded in response. Samandriel was calling again, and Cas knew that he had to go. He walked back to Dean’s bedside, reaching a hand out and brushing Dean’s hair back – it was longer than usual, he noticed. He laid two fingers on the man’s forehead, sharing one last pulse of grace to touch his friend’s soul. 

Cas then turned back to Sam and Bobby, who were both staring, though the angel didn’t notice that. 

“I have to go,” he said. “Tell Dean I’m sorry that I couldn’t stay.”

“Sure thi-“ Before Sam could even finish his response and thank the angel for his help, Cas was gone. 

Sam looked at Bobby. “What did we just see?”

"I think we already know,” Bobby replied. “Does either of us want to open that can of worms?”

Both hunters watched Dean’s sleeping form and shook their heads “no” simultaneously. 

Sam walked over and covered Dean with a blanket. He laid a hand on his brother's face, relieved to have Dean back. "Thanks, Cas," he prayed softly. Bobby echoed the sentiment.

+

Dean woke up the next morning feeling absolutely amazing – better than he had in years. He raised up in the bed and saw Bobby sitting at the table with Sam, both poring over research materials.

“Bobby?,” Dean said. 

Both men stopped their work and grinned at Dean like he was the second coming. It made him uncomfortable.

“G’morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Bobby said. 

“Aw, shut up,” Dean groaned. “What are you doing here?”

“I called him,” Sam said. “Don’t you remember what happened?”

Dean looked puzzled. “Last thing I remember is being in the Impala and feeling sleepy…”

Bobby and Sam shared a look. “Let’s go get breakfast,” Bobby said. “We’ll fill you in there.”

+

They had breakfast at the diner down the block. Dean ordered the heart attack special and waited for Sam’s response. But there was nothing – not even a bitch face. Instead, Sam just smiled and told the waitress to bring three slices of apple pie too. 

That was when Dean knew something really big had happened. 

“Okay, spill it,” he said. “Did I die or something?”

So they told him, leaving out the part where he killed Bobby by mutual yet unspoken agreement. 

Pancakes, bacon, eggs, and a side of hashbrowns later, Dean was starting on his pie and trying to process the story. 

“So, I turned into a monster, huh? And Cas came to help?” 

Sam and Bobby shared an indecipherable look and nodded. “He said to tell you that he was sorry he couldn’t stay,” Sam said. “Things are bad in heaven, and Raphael is using his connection with yo—with us—against him or he would have been here sooner.”

Dean nodded and took another bite of pie. It was really good pie. 

“You’re sure you don’t remember anything?,” Bobby asked. “Nothing?”

Dean chewed his pie and swallowed. “Nothing – I mean, I remember falling asleep in the Impala, like I said. And then – it’s like I was just out of it and the next thing I know I’m waking up in the motel.” He paused. “But – I kind of…”

“Kind of what?,” Sam asked. 

“It’s not like I dreamed or anything, but I can remember feeling – uh…” Dean stammered and the tips of his ears turned pink. “I remember feeling safe, I guess.”

“Huh,” Sam said. 

“Makes sense,” Bobby said, nodding.

“What do you mean?,” Dean asked.

“Cas had to put you back together, Boy,” Bobby said. “He didn’t explain what he was doing, but it was pretty clear that he was communing–”

“—or _something_ ,” Sam added helpfully, wincing when Bobby kicked at him under the table.

“—with your soul and that he helped pull you back out of whatever the spell and poison was doing to you.”

“Huh,” Dean said, nodding thoughtfully. “Well, whatever he did, I’m grateful.” 

“So are we,” Sam said, motioning for the check. 

Both Sam and Bobby noticed when Dean kind of spaced out and assumed, rightly, that the boy was sending a silent prayer of thanks to his friend. 

They also both noticed when Dean laid a hand over his heart, exactly where Cas’s hand had been. And they both noticed the way his eyes softened in response to whatever he was hearing or feeling. 

Neither asked questions, though, and instead simply exchanged a small smile while Dean’s attention was occupied. 

The whole exchange only lasted for seconds, but its meaning was eternal, one that both Sam and Bobby understood, even if Dean didn’t yet. 

Dean snapped his attention back to his family. “So, what about the thing that infected me? What’s our plan?”

“We don’t have one yet,” Sam said. “You ready to jump back into work already?”

“Absolutely,” Dean replied. “Let’s go catch a monster that isn't me.”

“Well, okay then,” Bobby said. “Let’s get goin’.”

+

They caught the hybrid outside of Swannanoa. It took a silver bullet and a propane gun to take it down. Then they burned it on a pyre and hoped it was the only one of its kind. 

“So whose do you think it was?,” Dean asked. “You said Cas mentioned Campbell and Crowley experiments?”

Sam nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know. I would think that all of Crowley’s experiments went up smoke when Cas torched that facility. But Samuel? He kept his secrets, and if we haven’t found a creatures lab yet, I don’t know where it would be.”

“Let’s hope this is the end of it,” Bobby said. “That was one scary mother, and I’d rather we not run into anything else like it.”

“You and me both,” Dean said somberly. Though he still didn’t remember his time as a monster, seeing what the hybrid looked like, how it had acted… well, that was enough to make him eternally grateful to Cas for his intervention. 

As the fire burned to ash, Bobby said his goodbyes. “Glad you’re okay, boy,” he said, drawing Dean in for a rare hug. He hugged Sam too. “Don’t be strangers.”

“Course not, Bobby,” Sam said. “We’ll swing by soon.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, giving Bobby his classic smirky grin. “We’ll see you before you even have time to miss us.”

“Idgits,” Bobby said with a fond smile. He drove off in one direction and the boys in the other; they were heading for Mantioc, Wisconsin to investigate suspected spirit activity. 

+

Sam and Dean stopped for the night at one unfortunately decorated Pineapple Inn off the interstate in Kentucky. 

Despite the garish patterns covering everything, Sam fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Dean wasn’t far behind. 

Dean was having that dream again – the one where he was fishing off a pier, looking out at calm water. Suddenly, Cas was there.

“Dean,” Cas said.

Dean looked up and smiled warmly, “Cas, buddy – it’s good to see you.” 

“It’s good to be seen.” 

Suddenly, they were sitting on a park bench overlooking a gorgeous garden of bright tulips and other flowers Dean couldn’t identify. 

“Okay, are you in my dream or am I in yours?,” Dean asked. “Cause I don’t know this place.”

“I think it’s a blend of the places we both know,” Cas said. 

“Are you really here, man? Or, am I dreaming this, too?”

Cas laid his hand upon Dean’s. Even in his dream, Dean could feel something inside him reach out for Cas, and he could feel Cas’s grace reaching back and touching him. 

Dean turned his hand so that they were palm to palm and intertwined their fingers. The sky over the garden was a bright, azure blue that reminded Dean of Cas’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry, Dean. I have to go.”

“Already?,” Dean asked, hating the need even he could hear in his voice. 

Cas tightened his hold on Dean’s hand. “I’ll be back when I can. Know that.”

Cas disappeared, and Dean woke up with a start. He could still feel the pressure of the angel’s hand upon his, and the memory evoked a warmth deep inside him, one that he really enjoyed feeling. 

_That_ realization hit him with a reality he’d been carefully avoiding for a really long time. 

“Dammit,” he swore softly, staring into the darkness of the motel room. There was no going back now, but damned if he had any idea how to go forward.

He rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself back to sleep. 

+

Sam woke up as the sky outside lightened with dawn’s first rays. He lay there a moment trying to figure out what he’d heard. And then he heard it again. Dean was mumbling. 

“Dean? What’s wrong?,” Sam asked, jerking upright. He realized his brother was still asleep, that he was dreaming, and Sam could only make out one word – _Cas_. 

As soon as Sam heard the name, he prayed that he wasn’t witnessing an angel sex dream. 

A few mumblings later, he was positive that he wasn’t. He’d shared a room with Dean long enough to know (usually) when it was about to get awkward, and there were no signs of that. 

Instead, Dean seemed trapped in a nightmare. Sam reached for his brother to shake him awake, but before he could touch him, a golden glow settled over Dean’s body. Sam watched as Dean’s thrashing stopped, his breathing slowed, and his expression became peaceful. 

“Huh,” Sam said. He wondered how long that had been going on. He got up and headed for the shower, shaking his head at the relationship between his brother and Cas. If they ever took whatever this was from subtext to text, Sam was throwing them a celebration to end all celebrations. 

He just hoped it’d be sometime this decade. 

+

By the time Dean woke up around 7, Sam was on the computer checking email and doing some preliminary research. 

“How’d you sleep?,” Sam asked. 

“Like a baby,” Dean replied, stretching his arms wide until his back popped. 

“I bet you did,” Sam muttered with twist of his lips.

“What was that?” Dean asked, narrowing his eyes. He knew Sam’s smirks when he saw them.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “You’d better hurry if you want breakfast.”

The promise of food immediately got Dean’s attention off of Sam, as his brother had intended. 

Sam wrapped up what he was doing as he listened to Dean singing – _singing_ – in the shower. It was a sound that just a few days ago, Sam had worried he'd never hear again. Thank God for Cas, he thought with a smile.


End file.
